


Parting The Ways

by LondonGypsy



Series: Greek Summer Nights [5]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: Benedict is an idiot, But it's too late, F/M, Sexy Times, addressing the issues, here comes the angst - big time, suppressed emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tousled, tanned and very sexy Benedict in Greece.<br/>Isis, writing for a newpaper, at a Sherlock promotion.<br/>And what happens when they cross paths and spend the night together.</p><p>This is the last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parting The Ways

**Author's Note:**

> A huge Thank You goes (as always) to my beloved SuperWhoLockGypsy.  
> Also a big big Thank You to Barawen and calliope79 for inspiration, cheerleading and generally making me want to continue this.  
> Barawen also for BritPicking this baby.  
> Thank you, Ladies, wouldnt have written this without you.

“Can't you extend it? Just a little more? We don’t start again before... yes I know, I know. Please? Work your magic, would you? Yes, that'd be fantastic... yeah, okay. Ta. Bye.”

Words float around in my head, snatches of my dream still drifting through my mind but the deep baritone, that honey smooth voice, is pulling me out of sleep like a magnet.

I blink heavy lids open and shut them quickly again; the room's too bright and the light hurts.

A soft chuckle reaches my ears and a warm hand caresses my ankle.

“Huh?” I manage to choke out, risking another glimpse.

Slowly the room comes into focus, and I can make out a figure at the end of the bed before I have to close my eyes again.

“Too much wine, eh?”

There's a rustle and the heavenly smell of coffee.

“Here, hope it's okay like this. Don’t really know how you take it, sorry...”

I scramble into a half sitting position and blindly reach out. A mug is pressed into my hands and I close them around it.

Another gently huffed laugh and the mattress moves before it becomes quiet again.

Carefully I take a sip and groan in pleasure; black and strong and sweet, perfect.

“Ah...” 

I feel the caffeine surge through my veins, waking me a bit and chasing away the fatigue.

Clinging to my mug, I once again blink, the brightness finally bearable.

Benedict's sitting at the opposite end of the bed, his own mug in hands, watching me with a smile.

“Morning,” he says quietly, “hope I didn’t wake you. Life-threatening phone call too early in the morning, you know how it is.”

He rolls his eyes and shrugs, “Sorry 'bout that.”

“'s fine,” I mumble, trying to start up my brain into proper thinking.

Taking another sip his eyes slide over me, and suddenly I am over-aware that I just woke. Instinctively one hand goes to my head, trying to tame my hair; I know how I look that early and it's not a pleasant view.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, “you look lovely like this.”

I can only stare at him but lower my hand again and concentrate on my coffee.

The room's silent, only a few birds are to be heard from outside, a soft breeze coming in through the open windows is moving the curtains.

Benedict has tilted his head, gazing at me with a thoughtful expression on his face.

I return that gaze but soon it starts wandering, taking in his entire appearance.

His ruffled hair, standing up in odd angles, and the bit of scruff on his cheeks and chin.

His strong arms, muscles shifting subtly under his skin as he nurses his coffee.

His beautifully toned chest and stomach, only an edge of the duvet pulled strategically over his lap, his long legs peeking out from underneath.

He hums tonelessly to something only he can hear, a tiny smile dancing over his full lips, his eyes have fallen closed.

Almost like the first time I saw him, lost in his own head.

I can't stop looking at him and suddenly I am registering things, I haven't noticed before.

His delicate, slender wrists, so fragile compared to his huge hands with its long, elegant fingers.

The randomly looking clusters of moles in the middle of his chest and his neck, making my fingers itch with the urge to connect them.

The almost invisible trail of sparse dark hair down his lower belly, vanishing under the bit of duvet, covering him just _there_.

His unusually long toes, wiggling haphazardly in a spot of sunlight falling on them.

“You are such a wonderful creature,” I whisper, more to myself than for him to hear, “so fucking gorgeous.”

His eyes snap open and find mine instantly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything for a moment before the most breathtaking smile spreads over his face, making his eyes sparkle.

“Coming from your beautiful lips, I, for once, will just take that and won't make a snarky remark,” he says, still smiling.

I blush but don’t look away. His eyes have captured mine and I am drowning in them, losing myself in the blue and green and gold.

Without breaking eye contact he leans out of bed, letting his empty mug drop to the floor.

His fingers slide over the sheets, taking a hold of the duvet I am covered with and slowly, very slowly he pulls it away.

“While we're at it, has anybody ever told you how bloody amazing you look just like this? All tousled and sleepy in my bed?”

My mouth hangs open, all I can do is watch helplessly as he tosses the duvet carelessly on the floor, his eyes go wide and dark as they glide over me.

“Marvellous,” he mutters as he leans forward and starts kissing up my legs, his hands trailing gently over my skin.

I giggle as he reaches a particularly ticklish spot and he groans, his head dropping on my thigh.

“Seriously, your laugh is driving me mad, you know that? It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard,” he says quietly, looking up at me.

There's something so yearning in his voice that I suddenly have to fight back tears.

“Come here,” I whisper, reaching out for him.

He scrambles up the bed and slings his arms around my waist, his face pressing against my neck, mouthing kisses over my skin.

My hands slide into his tousled hair, pressing myself closer against him, overwhelmed with the need to hold him as tight as possible.

“I don’t wanna go home...”

I almost don’t hear him, he's speaking quietly but when it reaches my ear, the sting in my heart is painful.

We've known each other only for three days, less even, and yet there's a connection between us, a bond I can't explain. Judging by his words, the longing he permeates, it is not only me who feels it.

“When do you have to leave?” I ask, shocked by the roughness of my own voice.

“Tomorrow at latest... tried to extend it though...”

Ah, now the call earlier makes sense. A jolt of mixed emotions shakes me to my inner core: he tried to stay. For me.

The tears I suppressed, start to fall and I hide my burning face in his cool curls.

“Hey...don't... shhhh...”

Of course he notices, he's too damn observant.

Making soothing noises he pulls me closer, kissing away the droplets on my face. His lips are soft and warm, brushing like feathers over my lids and my cheeks before they reach my mouth.

It is gentle, almost hesitant, barely there. His lips brush over mine, smooth and sweet, his tongue flicking against the seam, asking for permission.

With a sigh I open for him and he slowly deepens the kiss, his hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss is lazy and languid, he has all the time in the world to explore my mouth, and he does. He's licking deep inside, his tongue curling wantonly around mine, swallowing my low moans before they can escape. Pulling back, he nibbles on my lower lip before he plunges in again, reducing me to a quivering mess in his arms.

“I want you,” he murmurs between kisses, “God, I want you so much it hurts...”

His words shoot straight between my legs, and I arch into him, letting him feel my wetness.

He curses lowly and rolls on his back, pulling me on top of him. One hand presses me down on his rapidly growing erection while the other one pulls open the night-stand.

Before he can open the condom though, I pluck it from his fingers and lean back, hovering over him.

He's spread out before me in all his glorious nudity, his body on full display – for me.

Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I rip the plastic open, my eyes searching his.

Holding his fiery gaze with mine, I lower one hand and carefully wrap it around his length, making him whine at my touch.

Carefully I hold him and slowly roll on the condom. His hands are clenching at his side and his lids are fluttering. Yet he keeps looking at me, his pupils black, the colour of his eyes erased by them.

As soon as the condom's on, he pulls me into a bruising kiss before he flips us around. Pressing the full length of his heated body against me, he pushes my legs apart.

“I... I can't,” he rumbles, voice gravelly with need, “I can't take this slow...”

I smile weakly at him.

“I don’t want you to,” I reply quietly, canting my hips and rubbing my wetness against his cock.

“Oh God...” he moans and with one liquid motion he angles himself and slides into me, immediately starting to thrust hard and fast.

I meet every one of his relentless thrusts instantly, my legs wrapping around his waist, my heels digging into his lower back.

Suddenly he slows down, only keeps circling his hips while his hands search mine. He tangles our fingers together and pulls my arms above my head. Lifting up a bit, he presses our joined hands deep into the mattress.

He starts moving again, every single thrust seems to drive him deeper and deeper into me. His face is hovering over me, his clouded gaze locked with mine, a fine sheen of sweat covering his forehead.

I am helpless, pinned to the bed by his weight and his hypnotising eyes. He's driving into me with such force, the headboard is rattling against the wall but neither of us cares.

His arms are trembling, he's biting his lower lip and the broken noises he makes are coming from deep in his throat.

When he comes, it is violent, almost brutal, and he actually screams. His back is bending incredibly far back before he collapses onto me, driving the air out of my lungs at the impact.

But he rolls off of me in a heartbeat, his hands still tangled with mine as he pulls me into a frantic kiss. Before I can respond to that, he slides one big, shaking hand between my legs, rubbing over that sensitive spot there.

“Come for me...” he growls, and it only takes a few rough circles by those delicious fingers and I arch up on the bed, coming apart under his hand.

“Yes, God, yes... “

His voice is rough, his fingers slowly easing me through my orgasm until I can't take it any more.

I gently stop him with a shaking hand; he understands but doesn’t let go. Instead he lays his hand over my still clenching sex, covering me with his huge palm.

I sigh blissfully.

“God, Benedict, what are you doing to me?”

He grunts and suddenly he's gone, rolling onto his side, his back to me, curling up into a big ball of too long limbs.

Frowning I look over, reaching out a hand.

“Benedict?” I ask, confused.

He tenses as I touch his back and I pull back in shock.

Irritated and hurt I look at him, trying to understand what just happened.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he snaps as he sits up on the edge of the bed, his back still turned to me.

“What was?”

“You! This!” he shouts, jumping to his feet, starting to pace the room.

“It was supposed to be just sex, one night, a bit of fun, that's all. And then you go... you... argh...”

He whirls around, his eyes burning with anger and I flinch at the sight.

And suddenly he deflates, sinking gracelessly onto the floor as if all the energy had just left him. When he looks up, his face has softened.

“I am sorry, so fucking sorry. I... “

He shakes his head and sinks back into himself, raking his hand through his hair.

I have no idea what's going on but the sight of him is heartbreaking.

Crawling over the bed I stand on wobbly knees and walk over to him. I kneel in front of him and lay my hand on his arm.

“Hey,” I say quietly and he looks up, such a sad, pained expression on his face that it takes my breathe away.

“You can talk to me,” I assure him quietly, stroking his arm hesitantly.

He sighs loudly.

“That's the fucking point. I _know_ that. I don’t know how or why. I don’t even know your last name or your fucking phone number. I know nothing about you while you know everything about me. And yet... I... it feels as if I've known you for ages and I trust you. I fucking trust you.”

The last he spits out between gritted teeth, making me jump.

I don’t know what to say, my mind's reeling with his words. I am still trying to process what he said when a warm hand lowers onto my knee.

“Don’t you see?” he asks, sounding defeated, “that's the fucking problem. I've always been careful around strangers, around fans, to not reveal too much, to not get hurt. And here I am, about to get hurt in the worst possible way. I have to go back soon, have to fucking leave you here, not knowing if I ever see you again... “

There's a choked sound before he continues.

“I can't do this... I just can't... My life is complicated enough... I can't... I don’t need this...God, this is so fucked up.”

I gasp at the incredibly vulnerable expression in his eyes.

“Isis, I...”

And suddenly I know.

Suddenly I see what's troubling him, see it in the way he looks at me, lost and broken.

“Oh Benedict...”

Before I know it, I wrap my arms around him, pulling him as close as possible. First there's no reaction but then he shudders and his arms fly around my shoulders, his grip almost painfully tight.

“Me too, you know,” I whisper, all those suppressed emotions I tried to ignore flowing into my voice.

He groans and clings even harder to me.

The sound of a phone ringing startles us. Reluctantly he lets go of me and stands. He picks up his phone from the night-stand.

“Hello? What? Are you...? Yes...”

Standing as well, I walk into the bathroom, giving him some privacy.

I close the door behind me and stare into the mirror.

What the hell just happened?

Did he just confess his feelings to me?

I can't be certain, he never actually voiced it but it damn well felt like it.

Like he said, we don’t know each other and despite the fact I know more about him than vice versa, I have no idea who he _really_ is.

And yet, there's that feeling again, a strong bond between us, a connection, as strange as it sounds.

Can this be? Could there be more between us than sexual attraction?

I don’t even dare to hope but my heart flutters at the thought.

Working for a newspaper has its perks: I can work from almost anywhere on the globe, I am not bound to a place as long as I have a computer and web access.

 _Stop it_ , I scold myself, splashing cold water in my face, _you're not in a relationship with the world's most in demand actor._

A soft knock at the door makes me jump.

“Can I come in?”

I walk over and open the door for him.

There's a frown on his face, and it makes my stomach clench in panic.

“That was my publicist. She tried everything she could but I have to leave tomorrow...”

The words are a slap in my face. It must show because I am pulled against his chest, strong arms holding me tightly.

There is a hopelessness in me, a feeling of loss and it hurts like hell.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

I lean back in his arms and look up at his face, drinking in every tiny detail of his beautiful face.

“I can come...well... visit, perhaps?” I say, fully aware that I sound like a lovesick fool.

His shoulders sag and he shakes his head.

“It would only make it worse.”

I consider the next thing I say very carefully; it's a possibility, a chance but it's also a big step for me.

“You know, I can work from almost any place on earth and, uhm, well, I've always wanted to go back to London. It's been a while since I’ve been there but I still have connections, people I know, people I can ask...”

I rattle down the words, afraid of looking at him but I feel his posture tense and his hands on my back stiffen.

“Oh Christ...”

It's only huffed and before I can make one move, he's shoved me against the wall and kisses me fiercely. It's more like an attack than a kiss, the raw need in it is making my knees weak.

As quick as he started as quick he's backing away, panting, his hands shaking and he clenches them at his side.

“No,” he says gravelly, “no, I can't do this. I cannot... no.”

And with that, he spins around and storms back into the other room.

My knees give in and I slide to the floor, the tiles cold against my back. Slinging my arms around my knees, I hear him rummage through the room.

Seconds later the room door slams and it's quiet.

He's gone.

Tears are running down my face and this time I can't hold them back.

 *

I don’t have the energy to leave so after he storms out I stagger to my feet and stumble to bed, hiding under the duvet that still smells of him.

A million things are going through my head, and yet I can't make one clear decision.

The fair thing – for both of us – would be to just go. Leave the room and his life, forget everything about him.

But I can't. The idea alone of going back to my normal life and trying to erase the memories of him is too painful.

The rational thing is more or less the same, only that I would talk to him first, telling him that I had a wonderful time but that's it.

It's even worse to think about that.

I have seen the way he looked at me, the way he kissed me after I proposed the idea of coming to London. Full of hope, even if it was only for second.

He wouldn’t be able to take it either.

But what else is there? Is there even anything? An us, a we?

Benedict himself said it earlier, it was supposed to be fun, no strings attached.

And yet, I have seen him, heard him and there was definitely something - _is_ something - between us.

Sighing I curl up under the covers and bury my face in his pillow, revelling in the scent that is already so dear to me.

The sound of the opening door wrenches me out of my misery and hastily I wipe the tears away.

There's a short hesitance in his step and I can hear him take a deep breath before he clears his throat.

“I apologize for my behaviour,” he says, his words wooden and stiff.

I hear him pacing the room before he sits on the edge of the bed.

“I am sorry, I guess my temper got the better of me.”

He falls silent and I glimpse up at him, against better judgement. He's staring out of the window, his back as straight as it gets, his jaw clenching.

“Listen, I... fuck, I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” I whisper.

Slowly he turns towards me and I gasp.

The expression on his face is guarded but his eyes betray him. They are soft and helpless, shimmering far too bright in the harsh light of day.

“What?”

“Let's just...” I swallow around the lump in my throat and tentatively reach out for him, “let's just pretend you don’t have to leave...”

“How am I supposed to do that?” he barks, making me flinch.

Immediately he groans and rubs a hand over his face before he sheepishly looks at me.

“God, I am sorry, I can't do anything right today.”

He exhales and turns to me, a forced smile on his lips.

“I am an actor, aren’t I? If there's anything I can do then it's that. Let's pretend then.”

He stands and walks over to the bag, sitting on one of the drawers. He digs through it and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

He offers me an apologetic grin that doesn't reach his eyes.

“Mind if I...?”

I weakly wave him off.

“Go ahead.”

He shuffles through the room and out onto the balcony.

I hear the flick of the lighter and him inhaling deeply; a little smoke cloud and the typical smell floats into the room.

For a moment I just stare after him but then I throw away the duvet and crawl out of bed. I am still naked and I eye my dress from last night.

No, I can't wear that again. Looking around the room, I spy my underwear and also Benedict's shirt he gave me yesterday. As I bend down and pick it up, a smile spreads over my face: it's his beloved Brooklyn shirt. I didn’t notice before but now it makes my heavy heart a bit lighter.

I pull it over my head. His scent still clings to it, mixed with mine now and that combination is heady. I inhale deeply, letting the smell fill every cell of my body.

Pushing off of the bed, I slowly walk over to the open balcony door and lean against the frame.

Benedict acknowledges me with a quick glance but doesn’t say anything.

Silently I watch him smoke, unsure as how to behave.

He finishes the cigarette and drops it into a half empty water bottle.

“You look beautiful in my shirt,” he eventually murmurs, his eyes trained on his hands.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Silence falls again.

I fidget a bit, not knowing how to deal with this.

Without looking he holds his hand out. I take it and he pulls me against his chest. His arms close around me, his chin resting gently on top of my head.

Sighing I snuggle closer to him, my hands sliding into the back pockets of his shorts.

He groans quietly, pressing me even closer.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” he murmurs, sliding one hand under my chin and lifts it. Willingly I look up, meeting his gaze openly.

“Whatever you like,” I reply softly, squeezing his arse and his eyes roll back with a moan.

“Oh God...”

His lips crush against mine without warning; I didn’t feel him move. His mouth is needy and unforgiving, his tongue relentless as it curls roughly around mine. I feel a heavy shiver running through his body as he kisses me harder, his hands sliding into my hair, keeping me from backing away.

Not that I want to.

Moaning lowly into his mouth, I press myself against him, my fingers dancing over the hem of his shirt, pushing under the fabric, caressing the small of his back. His skin is warm and damp, and every single slide over his flesh chases another shiver through him.

“You're driving me crazy,” he breathes as he breaks the kiss, “I just fucking had you. Had you in that bloody bed only an hour ago and yet I want to take you there again. Make...make love to you again...”

The last words are almost inaudible, choked out between gentle kisses and little nibbles on my lip.

I am melting against him and my knees threaten to give in. He notices and with a swift move he lifts me up, my legs instinctively going around his small waist.

He leans up, kisses me again, slow and thoroughly while he carefully walks us back inside, his arms strong and secure around my midst.

As he reaches the bed, he lowers me onto the the mattress and quickly crawls over me, never stopping kissing me.

My skin feels as if it's too thin and his touch is setting every nerve on fire.

I claw at his shirt, too dazed to properly pull it over his head but he gets my intention.

Cursing lowly he rips it off, then he does the same with mine before he falls back on me. His hands are in my hair, cradling my head as close as possible.

I arch against him, wanting – needing – to feel him everywhere.

Suddenly he stills and pulls away. He shuffles away from me, his arms going around his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

“I can't do this.”

My mind is still dizzy from his kisses and it takes a moment to understand what he's saying.

“I am sorry,” he says, his voice breaking at the words, “I just cannot do this. I can't pretend... not with you.“

He avoids looking at me and instead he fishes his shirt off of the floor. He yanks it over his head and gets out of bed.

Motionless with shock I stare at him as he drags himself to a chair and falls into it, pulling his knees up against his chest.

“I tried, God believe me, I tried. But I cannot do this. What a terrific actor I am.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. Everything in me wants to go over and hold him, tell him it's okay but I know that he won't allow it.

“I should leave then,” I say, wondering about the steadiness of my own voice while my insides are in such a turmoil.

He sighs, a shuddery desperate sound and then he nods wordlessly.

“Okay,” I mutter flatly.

Getting out of bed is like fighting through molasses, every movement is slow and resistant but eventually I make it. Automatically I reach for his shirt before I realize what I am doing. I let it fall to the floor again and look for my dress.

“Keep it.”

My head shoots up but he's looking out of the window and I am not sure, I heard him correctly.

“Keep it. As .. as a memory.”

His voice is hoarse as he repeats it and tears fill my eyes.

Without a word I take the shirt but don’t pull it on. Instead I slip into my dress, not bothering to close it.

I collect my purse and walk over to the door.

As I lay the hand on the doorknob I hear a growl, a flurry of motion and then his arms are around me, clinging to me like a drowning man. He's plastering hot kisses over my neck, my shoulder, my arm.

I turn my head, only a bit, and his lips find mine in a heartbeat. He's kissing me with such a frenzied despair that it makes my eyes spill over.

As sudden as he came he is gone again, his arms falling down.

“Go,” he croaks, his voice breaking, and without looking back I flee the room. I run down the hallway to my own room, fumbling the key-card in the lock and storm inside.

The door closes with a loud click and I sink against it, tears running down my face but I don’t notice it.

At that very moment my heart breaks – loud and clear.

I can feel the crack going through it, can see it vividly behind my closed lids.

“Oh, you bloody idiot,” I whisper into the empty room, not knowing – or caring – who I mean with that.

Curling up on the cold floor I let go, crying silently for what could have been and now never will be.

 *

I don’t know how long it takes for me to stop crying but eventually I do. There are no more tears, only a numbness that's worse than the pain.

Whatever goes on in that funny old head of his, I don’t know and he won't tell me.

There is nothing I can do.

I heave myself off of the floor and stumble to the bed, my foot catching on my open suitcase, sitting on the floor.

Staring at it I realize that I can't stay one moment longer. Not with the knowledge he's still here.

I start to randomly throw my clothes into the suitcase, ripping the dress from my body and collect my other things.

10 minutes later the case is filled and the room empty.

I look around and my eyes fall on the grey bundle by the door.

His shirt.

His fucking shirt.

Slowly I walk over and pick it up, holding it carefully between two fingers as if it wants to bite me.

The well-worn fabric is soft and smooth against my fingertips and without thinking I press it against my face.

His faint scent hits me full force and with a loud sob I throw it into the suitcase.

Hectically I shut the case and almost run out of the room.

At reception I sign out and hand over my key. Before I can leave, the concierge holds me back

“Madam, I've been told to give you this,” and with that he slides an envelope over the counter.

I wince as I notice the handwriting.

Only one word – my name – but I would recognize the messy crawling anywhere, I have seen it more than enough times on the internet.

I want to take it but the concierge places a hand on it.

“The gentleman explicitly instructed me to give it to you at check-out and let you know that he is 'very sorry but it's for the best'.”

He makes air quotes around the last words to show that they're not his.

I stare at him blindly.

I settle for a harsh “okay” and I feel a grim satisfaction as he flinches. He lets go of the envelope and without looking at it again, I stuff it in my purse.

“Madam?” he asks, concern in his tone, “are you okay?”

Hastily I wipe away the tears that run down my face and shake my head.

“No.”

I am too tired to deny what everybody can see.

“Is there anything I can do,” he asks gently.

“No. Wait, yes. A taxi to the train station, please.”

“Of course. If you want to wait here.”

He leads me to a few chairs in the lobby and with one last worried look he disappears.

10 minutes later he appears again.

“Your taxi is here.”

I push myself out of the chair.

“Thank you.”

I shake my head as he tries to reach for my suitcase and slowly walk towards the exit.

Half an hour later I am on a train home, staring out of the window, blind for the beauty of Greece's countryside.

My phone chirps to life and weakly I glance at the screen.

My boss, asking for the material from my trip.

Shit. I can't sight it, I just can't. I cannot bear to see his face right now, see his smile, the crinkles around his eyes.

Biting my lip I quickly consider what to do but my boss relieves me of that.

_'Just send what you have, we'll sight and edit everything. 's not your area anyway ;-p'_

I can't help the weak grin at the typed smiley face and remember why I love my boss.

Telling him that I will email everything I have as soon as I am home, I also ask for a few days off, pleading to not feel well. He grants me the rest of the week, wishing me well and with another smiley face that is dealt with.

Sighing I lean back in my seat, putting the phone back into my purse.

The rustle of paper reminds me of the envelope and hesitantly I pull it out.

My heart stings as I again see my name in his typical handwriting.

“What the fuck, Cumberbatch?” I murmur to myself, turning it over and over in my hand.

Whatever he has to say, I don’t want to know now.

Later.

Tomorrow. 


End file.
